The Things I Might Never Say
by sallysaw
Summary: This wasn't expected. This wasn't foreseen. But when the love of your life is getting married, and it's not to you, sometimes you're not the same person.


**A/N: Warning: there's cheese ahead...but it's good****. **

* * *

She's not this kind of girl.

Her heart thumps wildly as she slips into the back of the hall, takes a seat in the very last row of chairs next to a middle-aged couple she doesn't recognize. She's in a plain black dress, feeling out of place in the crowd of bright, bold colors, and sparkling jewels. Colors of joy.

She can't take her eyes off him, standing at the front, looking more striking in his Indian garb than she's ever seen him in a black tuxedo. And he's tamed his curly hair, for once. He holds himself stiffly, as if resisting the urge to pace. She wonders what's going through his mind, if he's thinking of her five minutes before he's supposed to be married to another woman. His ex-bully and now greatest protector is right beside him, a strong hand in a firm grip on his shoulder, muttering best-man reassurances to him. She sinks down in her seat a bit so neither of them will notice her, the girl who crashes the wedding she's been uninvited to.

She couldn't stay away, though, not when it meant the day would begin with him as the prince of her heart and end with him as another woman's husband.

She's running out of time.

But what has she come here to do exactly? Pretend that the ache inside her doesn't grow deeper with each moment that passes by? Profess her love and expect him to meet her at the back door of the church to run off with her?

She wants nothing more than to be brave, to be strong enough to just let him be happy.

Just then, Isabella appears at her side, slipping into the last chair in the row. She looks radiant in a pink and gold sari. Her friend slides a hand over hers.

"I thought you weren't coming," says Isabella, concern heavy in her voice.

Ginger bites her bottom lip. "I couldn't stay away."

"Ginger . . ."

"I know, I know," she grumbles, shaking her head. "He's happy now. I should leave him be." She pulls her hand out of Isabella's, turns to look her friend straight in the eye. "What if it were Phineas?"

"That's different," Isabella protests.

"No, it isn't," she hisses back. "It's the simplest thing in the world. What is there left to this world if you don't fight like hell for the love of your life?"

She sees all the arguments in Isabella's eyes – that Reema can give him a calmer, more contented life, that she was the one to push him away in the first place, that she could have prevented all this heartache if she'd only been a bit braver.

Before either can say a word, convince the other of their position, the processional begins, the musical notes of a certain ethnic origin waft through the church, smothering her.

Isabella tears her gaze away. "I should go. Ginger, I'm sorry."

And for a moment, she believes it. But then Isabella is gone, hurrying to her seat near the front of the church, sitting with all their friends. Ginger was friends with them once, too.

But then she lifts her eyes to Baljeet, standing up there so nervously (regretfully?), and maybe it's the music overwhelming her or the bride herself as she walks down the aisle on her proud father's arm, and she _knows_ she isn't this kind of girl.

She will not be the one to selfishly destroy his grasp at happiness. Whatever business they've left unfinished, that's the way it will stay. From this moment on, though she may think of him and pine for him in miserable silence, she will never see him again.

Reema, resplendent in an ornate _chania-choli,_ adorned with shimmering sequins, metallic threading, and jewels, is nearly to the altar when Ginger stands up and sidles out of the row of chairs, doing her best to not draw attention away from the bride.

Then, just as she's about to turn and walk out, never to see him again, his gaze meets hers. Her knees go weak, and she has to grasp the top of the chair closest to her for balance. There's no anger in his eyes, only desperation and sadness.

Isabella is right, though. _Everyone_ is right.

She's not this kind of girl.

* * *

It's a quarter past one in Montevideo, the clock is glaring at her, and her duffel bag is half-unpacked. Luckily blood is thicker than water and Stacy didn't even raise an eyebrow when she showed up at the presidential mansion three hours ago. She's tossed a pair of jeans, a skirt, some sweaters, a few blouses and a handful of books into it, but hasn't been able to bring herself to fill it up. She'll just buy clothes as she needs them, and she doesn't intend to stay too long anyway, just enough to get over her humiliation and regret. For the past hour, she's been lying on the guest bedroom bed, watching late-night satellite TV and gorging herself on junk food. Candy wrappers litter the duvet, and she's just started on a bowl of chocolate chip ice cream that was sent in courtesy of the kitchen chef.

God, maybe she should take her sister up on the offer to live down here.

A spoonful is halfway to her mouth when a knock sounds on the door.

Frowning, she scrambles off the bed, sets the bowl down, and trudges through the guest apartment to answer it.

"Stacy, I thought you weren't going to ask –"

But it's not her sister.

It's Baljeet, standing there in wrinkled khakis and scuffed leather shoes, hands jammed into his pockets, his favorite dark green shirt's collar peeking out from beneath his jumper. His dark hair is messy, even messier than it was this afternoon. And his eyes, dark eyes she's loved for so long, are a mass of confusion and uncertainty and fear.

She wants to throw herself at him, wrap her arms around him and never let him go.

"What are you doing here? You should be at . . ." But she trails off, because where he _should_ be is on his honeymoon, not standing outside the front door of her flat.

"I know," he nods, voice husky. He swallows thickly, takes a deep breath. Just as she's about to ask him in, he says, "I don't really know what to do here. I tried so hard to forget you. Tried telling myself it was just the hormones. Deep down, I think, I knew I was fooling myself. But then you showed up today, and . . ." He lifts his eyes to hers, his gaze piercing through her. "I can't let you go, Ginger. Science says I can, but I don't want to."

Her brain barely has time to comprehend his words before he's gathered her up, wiry arms encircling her waist, mouth desperately smashed against hers like he never wants to let her go again.

"I'm sorry," she breathes against his lips. "I'm so, so sorry. For everything."

"Do you love me?" he asks, all earnestness and open heart.

"Yes. So much."

"Then no looking back. You are the only one I want to share my future with." He slides a hand to her neck, pulls her against him so that their foreheads are touching. "And we do not have to rush, or make decisions right now. I just want to be with you."

He kisses her again, gently this time. His lips feel familiar, the touch setting off a spark within her chest.

She threads her fingers into his hair, murmurs, "We have all the time in the world."

She may not be that kind of girl, but he's not the kind of boy who can marry one when his heart belongs, always did and always will, to another.


End file.
